9. The Future Of What’s Been Left
The Future Of What’s Been Left
~WILLA~
I follow Cole through the spotless space, trying to process the sheer amount of money and effort they've invested in machinery I don't even recognize.
"New baler," Cole says, running his hand along the green metal with unconscious affection. "Your grandfather's was held together with baling wire and prayer. This one'll last another twenty years with proper maintenance."
Twenty years.
The number sits heavy in my stomach.
That's long-term thinking, planning for a future they couldn't have been sure would include them. My fingers find the edge of a workbench, needing something solid while my mind spins calculations I don't want to make.
How much did all this cost? How many hours of labor? Why pour so much into a ranch that might not even be theirs? What could be worth investing all this energy into a dream and vision that wasn’t theirs, but to a man who they weren’t even in debt to…
"The chicken coop's been completely rebuilt too," River adds from behind me, and I catch that scent again—rain-soaked earth mixing with the mechanical smells until my head swims. "Automatic doors, heated nesting boxes for winter. The girls are spoiled rotten."
The girls. Of course, they've named the chickens. Giving personalities to the livestock turned this working ranch into something that feels suspiciously like their forever home. All night I’ve been thinking about things revolving around the permanent ideology of them sticking around, which only gives me anxiety if I dare put a name to it.
Anything that makes roots at a future where they potentially stay in my life longer than my previous pack attempted would.
My chest tightens with an emotion I can't afford to name.
Luna fusses from Austin's arms, reaching for me with grasping fingers, and I find myself moving closer without conscious thought.
She settles the moment I'm within reach, one chubby hand fisting in my shirt like she's afraid I'll disappear. The weight of that small trust hits harder than it should.
"Let's head back," Mavi suggests from his position by the door— always watching, always ready . "Getting close to Luna's lunchtime, and she gets cranky when her schedule's off."
The walk from the equipment shed to the main house stretches far longer than it should, every step loaded with a thousand sensory distractions and reminders that I am not insulated from this place, or these people, the way I keep trying to convince myself.
The gravel crunches beneath my boots, crisp and uneven, and the wind coming off the hayfields is sharp enough to sting the inside of my nose.
It carries competing threads of scent—green rye, rusted iron, the faint sweetness of livestock—braiding them into something uniquely Cactus Rose.
But overlaying it all are the men themselves, four distinct signatures: leather and pine, rain and sage, char and cinnamon, linen and sun.
Each one should be background noise by now, except my brain catalogues them with compulsive efficiency, the way the traumatized always do with things that might someday matter for survival.
Up ahead, Luna’s small head, a dark blur against Austin’s chest, is the only sign that the world might one day become safe enough to stop cataloguing.
She’s already learned how to be the axis around which these men orbit. I keep expecting them to forget about her—hell, about me—the moment they’re distracted by some more pressing problem, but the opposite happens.
Every minute is an exercise in vigilance, in subtle midwestern care, in anticipating needs before they're spoken. Mavi walks point, always scanning the horizon for threats real and imagined. Cole keeps to my left, pacing his steps to mine like we’re yoked together by invisible rope.
River trails just behind, stance loose but eyes bright, while Austin and Luna complete the formation, child wrapped in a patchwork of wool and veteran hands.
I want to laugh at the absurdity—a security detail for a woman who couldn’t even keep herself safe in her own life—but I’m too busy making spreadsheets in my head, tabulating all the ways I don’t measure up.
We pass the rebuilt chicken coop, the air shifting from diesel to something sweet and domestic.
A half-dozen hens peck under the porch, and one—fat, red, and obviously favored—waddles right up to the edge of the path, unbothered by the parade of predators in boots. Cole bends down, scooping her up with impossible gentleness and murmuring something into her feathers.
The others don’t comment, don’t even look askance; it’s normal here, a grown man sweet-talking a bird, because the bedrock of this place is that nothing is too small to deserve protection.
I steal a glance at the men surrounding me—not just hired help, not just remnants of a rescue operation gone sideways, but something more foundational.
They’ve stitched themselves into the literal fabric of this ranch; the evidence is everywhere, from the freshly painted outbuildings to the way the paths are already tamped down by practiced feet.
It’s a physical record of investment, a timeline of effort and care that stretches out into the future as if they assume, without question, that they’ll always be here. And me? I’m collateral, a contingency they prepared for even when I was presumed lost.
By the time we reach the house, my arms ache from holding Luna so tightly, but I don’t want to let go.
She pulls at my hair, her grip surprisingly strong, and when I tilt her up to face me, she gives a gummy smile and a soft half-chirp, like she’s already figured out that my heart is a weak spot she can exploit.
I press my nose into her crown and inhale, and for a moment, everything slows down.
Just the scent of her, pure and new, and the blurry warmth of the men crowding into the mudroom behind us.
Inside, the air is heavy with the memory of baking bread and slow-roast stew, a reminder that someone was always thinking about the next meal even when the world was crumbling.
I let the others shuffle past me, each setting down boots or hats or burdens in a choreography that’s far from accidental, and try to find my own place in the entryway.
It’s like walking into a museum dedicated to a version of me that never existed: family photos on the wall, some ancient, some new and impossible to explain; a row of miniature boots by the door, Luna-sized and already mud-stained; even the furniture is rearranged just so, optimized for group living and maximum comfort.
I want to claw at it, to unmake it into something less perfect, more true to the disaster I feel like inside.
But all I do is stand there, Luna on my hip, while the men move around me like the world’s most attentive honor guard. There’s a moment where Mavi meets my gaze, eyebrows raised as if to ask permission for something neither of us can say out loud. I look away first. The shame is instantaneous.
The kitchen welcomes us back with its warmth, and I sink into a chair while the men flow into what's clearly a practiced routine.
River fills the kettle, Austin retrieves items from the refrigerator, Cole checks something on his phone with a frown before silencing it, and Mavi takes up his usual position where he can see all entrances.
They move like dancers who know every step, and I'm the awkward newcomer who doesn't know the rhythm.
"So." Cole's voice pulls me from my spiraling thoughts.
He's leaning against the counter, those storm-gray eyes studying me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
"What do you think? Now that you've seen it all in daylight?"
My fingers find the wood grain of the table, tracing patterns worn smooth by years of use. Grandpa's table. Their table. Soon to be... whose table?
"It's..." I swallow hard, trying to find words that won't betray the chaos in my chest. "It's more than I expected. More than I deserve. You've all done so much work, spent so much money?—"
"Your grandfather paid us well," River interjects gently, setting a mug of tea in front of me. Chamomile again, with honey. Already they know my preferences. "And most of the improvements paid for themselves through increased efficiency."
"Still." The wood grain blurs under my fingertips as I struggle with words. "This level of care, it's... it's beyond employee obligations."
They exchange those looks again, silent communication I can't decode.
Finally, Cole straightens, crossing his arms in a way that makes his shoulders seem impossibly broad.
"About that," he says. "We'd like to make you an offer. A formal one."
My stomach drops.
Here it comes— the catch, the price for all this kindness. My body tenses, ready to run even though there's nowhere to go.
"We'd like to stay on," River says, reading my panic with that uncanny intuition.
"As your employees. Same arrangement we had with William—we run the ranch, maintain the property, handle the livestock.
You'd be under no obligation to keep us long-term.
Just...while you figure out what you want to do. "
Right. I’m the owner now…I have to figure out what’s going to happen to this place now that I’m back…
"No pressure," Austin adds quickly, bouncing Luna as she starts to fuss. "We know this is a lot to process. But the ranch needs consistent care, and we already know the operation."
"Security systems alone would take weeks to properly transfer," Mavi points out, practical as always. "Not to mention the livestock are used to our routines. Disruption could impact productivity."
I stare at them, these four men who pulled me from a burning building and then spent months preparing a soft place for me to land.
The logical part of my brain screams warnings—too good to be true, hidden motives, dangerous to trust. But the Omega part, the part I've tried so hard to suppress, whispers that these are good Alphas, protectors who've already proven themselves.
Why is it so hard to trust again? So difficult to see the good in them.
I already know the answer.
The constant disappointment I experienced again and again all through my life when I had my hopes high and was as blind as bird that wants nothing but to soar and enjoy the freedom their wings give.
I couldn’t see the predator behind me, waiting to strike…
That’s why it’s so hard to open my shattered heart to the mere ideology that these men who had such respectable careers to be okay with being here…working under…well, under me.
"Where would you live?" The question comes out smaller than intended. "If I... if I decided to sell?"
Something flashes across their faces— disappointment, maybe, or resignation.
But Cole's voice remains steady.
"We'd figure it out. Probably rent in town until we find something else. The important thing is what's best for you."
"And Luna?" I can't help asking, looking at the baby who's now contentedly gumming on her fist. "What about her?"
"She's adaptable," Austin says, but his arms tighten around her protectively. "Kids are resilient. We'd make it work."
Make it work.
Four Alphas and a baby, displaced because I can't decide if I'm brave enough to keep the gift my grandfather left me.
The thought sits like lead in my stomach.
"I don't know," I admit, fingers still tracing wood grain like it might hold answers. "I don't know what I want to do. Everything's happened so fast, and I'm not...I'm not good at quick decisions anymore."
No. I don’t have the confidence in tackling things head-on cause look where that got me?
Alone. Abandoned. Set up for dead because I hoped for a future I clearly didn’t deserve in those Alphas’ eyes, despite everything I did to make them comfortable, secure, favored in the eyes of their fellow Alphas who were ready to outcast them because of their continued fortune of bad luck.
Until little Miss Willa came saving the day with her naive hopefulness of love and a pack that would accept all of me.
I really was blind.
"Then don't make one," Cole says simply. "Take your time. We'll keep things running while you figure it out. No rush, no pressure. Just... time to breathe."
Time to breathe.
When's the last time anyone offered me that?
My chest tightens with something that might be gratitude or might be terror at how badly I want to accept.
"What about..." I gesture vaguely at all of them, at the space between us that fairly crackles with unspoken awareness. "Won't it be awkward? Me being here, you all working..."
"We're professionals," Mavi says firmly. "We've maintained appropriate boundaries with William for years. This is no different."
Except it is different.
William wasn't an unmated Omega who made their Alpha instincts flare.
Didn't smell like vanilla and maple, and endless possibilities that can make Alphas and Omegas go wild in between the sheets.
And most certainly wouldn’t make them feel so close to losing their control over their needs as Alphas.
I pretended not to notice how Cole had been reacting the other day, but I noticed.
Heck, I was easily leading him into it…
I’m not innocent.
I have needs…that haven’t been attended to for who knows how long…
But can we really live here comfortably together with no complications?
"Just think about it," River encourages. "No decisions today. Just... consider the option."
I nod, not trusting my voice. Under the table, my hands shake slightly. So many questions crowd my throat—why did my grandfather trust them so completely, how did Luna come to be, what aren't they telling me about their past?
But exhaustion wins over curiosity.
Or I subconsciously don’t want to deal with potential confrontation that wouldn’t fall in my favor?
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay, I'll think about it."
The tension in the room eases fractionally, though I can still feel the weight of things unsaid.
Luna chooses that moment to voice her opinion, a happy shriek that makes everyone smile despite the heavy conversation.
"Someone approves," Austin laughs, and the sound breaks through my anxiety just a little.
Maybe that's enough for now. I don't need all the answers today.
I just need to sit at this table that holds so much history, surrounded by men who've proven themselves in fire and smoke, holding a baby who seems to think I belong here.
For once, I can let that be enough.